But it was the symbol pressed into the cardstock that stopped him. A sigil in silver ink, its pattern matching techniques he’d seen in exactly one place before. Charlotte’s most advanced theoretical work—designs she’d drafted but never implemented because she understood the danger they represented.
Mirror manipulation. Not simple reflection magic, but something that operated at the level where perception met reality, where the boundary between observed and observer could be deliberately confused.
“That’s quite a business card,” Bastien said.
“I believe in accurate advertising.” Gideon’s steel-blue eyes held his without challenge or threat, just steady attention. “The sigil is functional, incidentally. If you activate it, we can have a conversation regardless of physical distance. Quite useful for coordinating research across time zones.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Please do.” Gideon inclined his head slightly. “I look forward to our next meeting, Mr. Duvall. Or should I say Mr. Durand? The alias was competent, but I make it my business to know who’s interested in the same artifacts I am.”
He turned and moved back into the dispersing crowd before Bastien could formulate a response that wouldn’t reveal more than he intended. Within moments, Gideon had vanished through a side door marked for staff access only, leaving Bastien standing with a card that radiated power against his palm and a shard that pulsed against his ribs.
The auction continued for another thirty minutes. Bastien remained through the final sale, maintaining the appearance of legitimate collector rather than someone who’d come for a single artifact. When the last item sold and the auctioneer thanked everyone for attending, he joined the general flow toward the exit.
The foyer stretched before him, amber light washing across marble floors whose polished surface reflected overhead fixtures with clarity that ordinary mirrors aspired to but rarely achieved. His phone buzzed again as he approached the door. Delphine, probably, wondering if he was going to reschedule their dinner plans as they had each already done in the past week.
He paused at the door, hand resting on brass handles worn smooth by decades of use. The street beyond showed through glass panels—Chartres Street illuminated by sodium vapor lamps that cast everything in shades of orange and shadow.
His reflection appeared in the glass as he prepared to push through, image superimposed over the view of the sidewalk beyond.
The reflection moved.
Not with him. Not in the synchronized rhythm mirrors maintain. His reflection remained frozen in the glass for afull second after Bastien had already begun walking forward, creating a moment where he existed in space while his image lagged behind.
Then it caught up, merging with his actual position, the delay so brief most people would attribute it to tired eyes or atmospheric distortion.
Bastien stepped onto the sidewalk, allowing the door to close behind him with a soft click. October air wrapped around him, humid despite the late hour, carrying scents of the Quarter after dark. Coffee from all-night cafés. Alcohol from bars whose business thrived in darkness. Something floral from courtyards hidden behind walls.
He walked toward where he’d parked three blocks away, mind cataloging everything he’d witnessed. The mirror shard in his pocket pulsed with each step, maintaining rhythm with his heartbeat. Gideon’s card radiated warmth through his jacket. And somewhere in the network of reflective surfaces that composed the Quarter’s architectural landscape, something watched him through glass that showed more than it was meant to reveal.
His phone buzzed again. This time he pulled it out.
Delphine:Still on for tomorrow? I found something in the Lacroix estate papers you’ll want to see. Also, you promised me dinner. I’m holding you to that.
Bastien typed his response as he walked
Bastien:Dinner. Tomorrow. I promise. Can you show me the papers tomorrow?
Delphine:Fingers crossed. You say that every time. I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me. Except I had to cancel that one time too for work.
Delphine: We’re not all private investigators making our own hours.
He stopped walking, thumb hovering over the screen. She was teasing—her texts always carried a thread of humor that made even her complaints feel light—but underneath the levity, he heard the genuine concern. They’d been building something careful and slow since the crisis that nearly tore the Quarter apart, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t let his work interfere with that growing connection.
But the envelope had named the Lacroix bloodline. The threat had invoked Delphine’s heritage deliberately, and until he understood why, until he knew whether Gideon Virelli represented intellectual curiosity or something darker, he couldn’t afford to draw her closer to this investigation.
Bastien: No excuses. Promise. Will explain tomorrow. Text you when I get home.
He pocketed his phone and continued walking. His reflection appeared in darkened shop windows as he passed—normal, synchronized, moving exactly as mirrors should portray the world they faced.
But the observation continued. Somewhere in the glass, something watched him with the focused attention that required intention rather than accident.
He reached his car without incident—a black sedan that maintained the kind of anonymous profile that served his work better than flash or distinction. The door opened beneath his hand, interior light activating automatically to illuminate leather seats and dashboard instrumentation.
Before he slid behind the wheel, Bastien looked once more at the building that housed Rousseau Auction House, visible three blocks distant between structures that framed Chartres Street. Light still glowed from its windows—staff members completing the administrative work that followed successful sales.
In the glass panels of a shop front halfway between his position and the auction house, he saw movement that didn’tcorrespond to any physical presence on the street. A figure in the reflection, standing where no one stood in reality, watching him with the kind of focused attention that required intention rather than accident.
